Appearing in: Volume 2, Issue 1 March 2011



by Jon Turner

With the fibers torn
are the memories of gunbattle
where bullets       scream Allah
and the deafening song of explosions
dance        where human
flesh once stood

There have been nightmares
that had made more sense      but     when
dream is reality      clarity is non-apparent
and the gunpowder      sacred to our veins
is by all means the means of expression
when true meaning is burnt
crisp                and the screams
fending for themselves
are still alone          in the desert

“The Torrent and the Tide”

by Frances Cannon

The year turned on its head that night
as a village of birds dropped from the heavens.
Red-winged blackbirds hailed in a broken,
unruly percussion upon rooftops.
A heavy, sluggish rain of starlings fell
as a flourish of a faded velvet curtain
down upon one mile’s stretch
of the dozing bible belt.
Silver whiskered drum fish swept up in a white flood
over the lip of Arkansas.
The rolling dance of these bloated ovals
called no dogs to bark,
as the town of Bebe stood mourning
the dethroned aviary at their feet.


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